


place the moon within your heart

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-16
Updated: 2010-12-16
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: Arthur pursues Dom into limbo one last time to see if he can rescue him from his own mind--and is more than a little surprised with what he finds. (LabyrinthAU.)





	

Arthur is late.

Arthur is late, and it is raining.

Arthur is late, it is raining, and his shoes are _ruined_.

Marie meets him at the door, and he's not sure whether it's because she's French or because she's sixty that it makes him feel fifteen. “An hour, Arthur,” she says in lieu of greeting. “You said you'd be here an hour ago.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I lost track of time—I was running errands, and I took a walk in the park. I didn't realize.”

“That is hardly an excuse,” she says, and he concludes that it might be a little of both, because now he feels like he's fifteen and rebellious, instead of fifteen and contrite. With the Fischer job fee languishing in his bank account, he thinks he might be the wealthiest adult with a seven o'clock curfew in the world. “We get only a few nights out with the children, Miles and I. And when we do, I need you to be here for Dom. It would be different if we thought you might have plans, but you never tell us you do. You said you wanted to help, Arthur. That's all we're asking of you.”

He knows this. He knows this, he does, and he knows he should have come back sooner, but sometimes he looks at himself in the mirror in the second guest room and he doesn't recognize the face looking back, and he'd gotten lost walking in the park because he had been daydreaming, something he hasn't done in decades. But how to explain that to a woman who hates the dreams anyway?

“I'm sorry, Marie,” he says instead. “It won't happen again. Have a lovely time with the children.”

If she hears how flat his voice is she doesn't show it, already satisfied and fluttering off to collect Miles. Arthur climbs the stairs, ruined shoes in his hand, and looks in at Dom's door.

His heart wrenches. Sleeping, as ever.

He barely hears Marie and Miles and the children as they leave from where he's sitting on the bed next to Dom. He is listening for it, though, listening for the click and slide of the door and the lock, the assurance that they're totally alone. It's been months since he last went under at all, longer since he shared the dream with Dom. It's time. Time to try again. Time to bring Dom back, the only way he knows how.

“Don't you think?” he asks idly, swabbing the delicate skin of Dom's wrist. “It’s like I’m living in a fairy tale.

“Once upon a time, there was a very young army ROTC cadet whose commanding officer thought he was too pretty for real war, and so put him in a preliminary trial for dream technology. But what no-one knew was that the civilian research attaché to the project had fallen in love with the cadet, and gave him unrestricted access to the PASIV, whenever he wanted. One night, when the lieutenant had been particularly insufferable and shot the cadet four times in an evening, the young cadet ran to the civilian for help.

“ ‘Ask me nicely,’ the researcher said, ‘and I’ll take you to a beautiful city in Europe, and you will be free.’

“But the cadet knew that running away would make him a fugitive, and he could never return to the army, or to school—instead becoming a civilian, too. So he suffered in silence.

“Until one night. The research assistant had fallen in love with a beautiful woman—the daughter of the dream technology’s inventor—and was leaving. The cadet, it seemed, had no choice but to follow.”

Arthur pauses, arranging himself on the mattress next to Dom’s too-peaceful form. “Guess it’s not such a fairy tale after all, huh, Dom.” He reaches over, sets the timer, depresses the button. “Not a fairy tale at all, and no happy ending in sight.”

And, all right, so he's used to finding himself in dreams that feel familiar, but it's not often he opens his eyes to the exact same room. He hates it when dreams start out like this; reaching for his totem is useless if he's the one who constructed the dream, completely meaningless in grounding himself in reality or dreamspace. It just reminds him of the reasons he wishes, sometimes, he were still in the military. At least then he would know he would never be dreaming alone.

“Is that so, darling?” comes a voice from the darkness. An English voice. A lovely, posh, rounded English voice—but one that should be an ocean away, all the same. Dreaming, then. Must be.

Arthur slides off the bed. “Eames? Is that you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Eames purrs, his voice filling the room although he's nowhere to be seen. “I am here if you ask it of me, my pet, here to rescue you from stagnation, to free you from the life you're living, a life unworthy of your not inconsiderable talents. So yes, Arthur, I am here.”

So he is, suddenly, striding in through the French doors in clothes more heinous than Arthur's ever seen him in before. “Are you wearing _eyeliner_?” Arthur asks, aghast.

"If I am, it's your fault. You're the dreamer, after all."

"So I am dreaming."

Eames doesn't answer, strictly speaking. Arthur hears a chitter from behind him—whirls, to see a shadow skittering out of the corner of his eye. It is only then that he notices Dom is gone. When he turns back, Eames is smiling. "I did tell you, darling. I have come to set you free."

"What the hell, Eames. What did you do with Dom? He should have been right there, we were going to go under again, I'm just trying to bring him back. He's drowning in limbo down there."

Eames shakes his head. "Arthur, where exactly do you think we are? He's happy here. Awake, even. He's created us a castle, you see? Perfectly safe."

Arthur is content to attribute the change in scenery to the nature of the dream the same way he can look past Eames' ridiculous jacket with the high, stiff collar and distractingly tight pants. He is looking out over an enormous labyrinth, with a craggy castle at the center. Eames circles him, mouth warm against Arthur's ear. "If you want to save him—if you really want to save him, I shall make you a bargain. Solve the labyrinth in thirteen hours, no more, and I shall release your precious Dom to you and leave you be forever after."

Arthur turns, examining Eames' face. He's a projection; he must be, with his wide smile and shining eyes, a little taller, a little broader than the Eames he knows. And yet he is compelled, drawn into the insipid child's game by the smallest of hopeful ideas—perhaps this is the way to Dom's rescue.

"All right," he says, trying not to read too much into Eames' quiet whoop of glee. "I'll solve your labyrinth, in thirteen hours, and you'll let Dom go. Do we have a deal, Eames?" He sticks out his hand, only to be met with Eames' warm laugh.

"Deal," Eames tells him, ignoring the hand outstretched in favor of drawing Arthur in by the neck and pressing a kiss to his mouth. "And Arthur," he continues, faces impossibly close together, "you should know that in here, I'm the king. You might want to get used to letting 'your highness' roll off that delectable tongue."

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Eames is already gone. "Typical," he mutters to himself. He rolls up his sleeves, checks the knot in his tie, and sets off.

Eames reappears in the throne room, where Dom is looking sullen. The king tsks. "Oh, cheer up, Dominic. Arthur will rescue you, I'm sure, and it'll be great fun to watch him do it. But come now, let's have a dance, to take our minds off of the lot of it. Let Arthur give it the old Army try, while you and I and Mal dance the night away."

Mal emerges from the shadowy corridor, image glittering in a jet black dress. She holds out her hands, and Eames takes them, waltzing her in Dom's direction. "Hello, Dominic," Mal hums.

"Hello, Mal," Dom replies, a little helplessly.

Eames watches as they dance, a smile tripping up the planes of his face. He pulls a crystal orb from the air between his gloved fingers and peers into it, chuckling delightedly as he watches Arthur make his way into Ariadne's garden.

 

 

 

 

Ariadne is, as best as Arthur can tell, poisoning fairies.

So far Arthur thinks he's been taking the ridiculous nature of things in stride, which makes him feel quite proud of himself. Loss of control is all he's been feeling recently; perhaps he's used to the idea of not knowing what next is to come. But even with such a cavalier-seeming attitude, it is a bit puzzling to watch Ariadne trundling along the edges of the garden with a finely misting spray bottle, attacking fairies with a vengeance that borders on glee.

"Fifty-seven!" he hears, followed by the whoosh-thud of a fairy hitting the ground.

"Er, hello, Ariadne," he ventures.

"Hiya, Arthur. Fifty-eight!" Another fairy falls.

"Are you, um, killing them? I'm just curious."

She scoffs. "Nah, they're no use to me dead. I want to take a look at their wings, for stained glass. They turn to dust when they die."

Arthur isn't sure how to feel about that, whether it's uncomfortable intriguing or simply revolting. "That's, um, nice, Ariadne. Hey, uh, is there a door to this thing?"

"Fifty-nine!" Whoosh, thunk. "I think so."

Arthur frowns. "Do you know where it is?"

"Where what is?"

"The door."

"What door?"

"The door to the labyrinth!"

"Oh, that door. What about it?"

Arthur sighs. He still has more than twelve hours to go. "Ariadne, how do I get into the labyrinth?"

A smile breaks across her face. "Now that's the right kind of question. Try over there." A heavy, ornate door is swinging open where she's pointing—a door Arthur is sure wasn't there a moment ago. "Go on, shoo, off with you. Are you going left, or right?"

Arthur examines the expanse of corridor, extending impossibly to either side. "You're the architect. Which way would you go?"

Ariadne shrugs. "I wouldn't go in there at all. Nasty place, that. Eames has had his way, in there."

"Well—thanks anyway, Ariadne. See you later?"

"If you survive!" she says, with a little more cheer than feels appropriate. Arthur thins his mouth, checks the cuffs on his sleeves, and makes a left.

The labyrinth path is covered in dead leaves and branches, loose bricks and cobbles. Arthur thinks it's fitting, if interminable. He knows it's some kind of paradox; it has to be, if it's a dream of his own making. But it's not, is it? Dom is the architect; this place is his—but the projections are all Arthur's, and isn't that terrifying, that Arthur put Eames in those pants?

Perhaps he's approaching this particular dream the wrong way. None of the rules are in play here, none of Arthur's knowledge useful. This labyrinth corridor might look endless, but perhaps it's not—perhaps if he just keeps going—Arthur picks up his pace, jogging through and around the debris, seeking the smallest hint, the minutest indication the entrance to the rest of the maze.

Nothing is forthcoming.

Arthur stops his jog, his frown deepening, and brushes his fingers against the wall.

"Oi!" a voice squeaks. "Watch where you're going!"

Arthur bends and kneels, searching out the source of the voice.

" 'Allo!" shouts the worm.

Arthur squints. "You're Nash."

Nash squints back. "Who? Nah, I'm just a worm."

"Okay, worm. Do you know how to solve the labyrinth? I keep walking, but I can't find an entrance."

"What do you mean? There's an entrance right there!"

Arthur goggles. "No, there isn't."

"Sure there is! Just walk towards it, you'll see. Come on, give it a shot."

Arthur frowns. He's never trusted Nash, but he's really got no choice with time ticking away every second. "Fine," he grits out, and straightens up, his palms out in front of him. He walks towards the interior wall, sure any minute now he'll run nose first into the stone, Nash laughing behind him.

But that's not what happens.

He keeps walking, through a gap in the wall so flawlessly camouflaged he has to catch his breath when he sees the second layer of corridors, twisting and turning the way he is used to. he looks back at Nash. "Thanks, mate." He turns to the right.

"Don't go that way!" Nash shouts. Arthur pokes his head back out. "Don't go that way," Nash repeats.

Arthur nods. "Thanks again," he says, and turns on his heel to go left.

He doesn't hear the Nash worm muttering to himself as he leaves. "If he'd kept going that way, he'd have ended up right at that castle."

 

 

 

 

In the throne room, Dom and Mal are still dancing, Eames lounging behind them. "Keep dancing, darlings," he calls out. "You know how that _pleases_ me."

Mal shoots him a smile over her shoulder, all predator and teeth. Dom just makes another helpless noise, unable to break away, and Eames laughs until Mal joins in.

"How can we cheer him up, my lord?" she asks, and Eames watches the look on Dom's face change.

"Perhaps he's tired, petal," Eames replies. "We shall make the dancing easier for him." He waggles his fingers flippantly; Dom's feet move faster.

"A magic dance!" Mal cries, delighted.

"Indeed," says Eames, before lunging back in his chair. Only nine hours left. He might as well check on Arthur.

 

 

 

 

It takes Arthur a full hour to realize the labyrinth is _changing_.

"Oh, for fuck's _sake_ ," he says aloud. It echoes on the stones around him. "Hardly fair, Eames!" He turns back to his left, where a dead end used to be, and climbs the stairs to a patio where, of all people, James and Philippa Cobb are staring at him.

"Grandmère says life's not fair," Philippa informs him. James nods—he's at the age now where everything his sister says is gospel.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Well, if it's not fair, what am I to do next?"

"Try one of our doors," Philippa replies promptly. "One of them leads to the castle, and the other leads to—"

"Certain death!" James interrupts with a flourish. Clearly, he's been practicing this part.

"Right," Philippa continues. "You can ask one of us a single question, to figure out which is which. One of us always answers with the truth, and the other always answers with a lie." A beat. "James always lies."

"Don't!" James interjects. "I tell the truth!"

"You liar," Philippa taunts.

Arthur holds up a hand, before the rivalry devolves any further. "Okay, okay! Philippa, look at me." She does. "I'm going to ask you a really hard question, and I need you to think really carefully before you answer. Okay?" She nods, rapt and attentive. "Would James tell me that the door behind you leads to the castle?"

Philippa thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

"Yes," she finally says.

Arthur grins. "Thanks, Phil," he says, and crosses to James' door. "I want to go in," he says.

"Why?" James asks, and Arthur remembers that he's also at the age where 'why' is the best word in the universe.

"Because if you were to say yes, then she would be telling the truth, but you would be lying. If you're telling the truth, it means that she's not, and the door behind her still leads to certain death." He pats James' head. "Now budge up, I'm off to rescue your dad."

The door swings open and Arthur steps through—only to plummet downward for a few seconds before being caught by an alarming number of weathered, grasping hands. One of them pinches him on the rear, and Arthur could swear he could see Eames in the faces the hands are making.

"How about a little help?" they say. "We're the helping hands."

"Delightful," says Arthur, dryly. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise, we're sure." The hand pinches again; Arthur squirms. "Shall we send you up, or down?"

"Oh, er. Down, I suppose."

"Down? He chose down?" The hands devolve into a panic, grasping indiscriminately as they send Arthur down the chute. Arthur grits his teeth. No use in changing his mind now, might as well make the most of whatever is to come.

Which is all very well and good, but when he lands in the dark with a thump, he thinks he probably should have asked to go up.

"Balls," he mutters.

"That's hardly appropriate," he hears Ariadne say. She lights a match; the whole of the cave-room is improbably revealed. "Hello."

"Hey, Ariadne."

"You've done well for yourself, haven't you? Landed in an oubliette and all."

"An oubliette?"

Ariadne nods. "Labyrinth is full of them. Little dark corners, easy to forget about."

"Ah. Oubliette," Arthur repeats.

"Precisèment," Ariadne replies. "But I can get you out."

"Out of here, or out of the labyrinth?"

Ariadne doesn't meet his eyes.

"Ariadne," Arthur asks, gently. She looks up. "Can you lead me to the castle?"

She shuffles her feet. "Well, I mean, you see—Eames is very persuasive, you must understand, and, er, I do quite like the way those pants look when he turns around."

Arthur arches an eyebrow. "Ariadne, are you telling me you do what Eames says because he has a nice ass?"

"Well," she says.

"Ariadne. No ass is so good you have to do everything it says."

"Well," she starts again. And then— "You have a very nice ass too, Arthur," and there's a funny sort of leer on her face that makes him blush ever so faintly.

Arthur sighs. "Ariadne, you're lovely, really, but I don't have time for this." He bends to her level, drops a kiss on her lips. "Can we go, now? Persuasive enough for you, or shall I let you get a grope in, as well?"

She shrugs. "That'll do. I'll lead you out, no problem."

"Excellent, thank you."

It takes her two tries, but she gets the makeshift door open with more improbable magic, and Arthur follows her out. Surely, he thinks, hardly anything can go wrong now.  


 

 

 

For a while, he thinks he might actually be right. Sure, there are booming rock faces telling them to turn back or face certain death, but he's heard that phrase a few too many times in the past four hours for it to really faze him. Ariadne is talkative, feisty even, engaging the false alarms with the same kind of tenacity he imagines Cobb saw in her the first time. He stays mostly quiet, letting the atmosphere of the place sink in, acclimating himself in a way he hasn't yet been able to. Schooling himself for what to expect next.

Which, inevitably, is Eames.

"Hello, darlings," he purrs. "Hello, Ariadne," he says, and even Arthur, resistant as he is to Eames' charms, can tell that those vowels are positively sinful.

"H-hey, Eames," Ariadne replies. "How, uh. How's the castle?"

"Very well, thank you. What are you doing with my Arthur?"

" _Your_ Arthur?—" Arthur tries to interject, but Ariadne interrupts with a glare for good measure.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Nothing? Nothing, tra la la? Ariadne, are you helping Arthur get to the castle?"

She twists her mouth. "Only in the sense that I was leading him back to the beginning."

Arthur feels a vein in the side of his head begin to twitch. Oh, how he would like to give Ariadne the benefit of the doubt—but if she's being convinced with kisses, well, Eames does have very nice lips. Arthur is sure they could be very convincing, if they tried.

Clearly, he's been in this labyrinth too long. "Back to the beginning, Ariadne," Eames chastises. "Be sure you go, or I will be forced to punish you—you seem so delicate, for the Bog of Eternal Stench." Ariadne wrinkles her nose; Arthur thinks all may very well be lost, until Eames' eyes slide away from her and she winks at him. "And you, Arthur? How are you enjoying my labyrinth? I worked terribly hard on it, just for you."

Arthur shrugs. "It's all right. I've seen you do better."

Something like fury twists on Eames' face—but it's not fury at Arthur, really, looking a little more like self-loathing than anything else, and isn't _that_ interesting. "Well, I should hate to _disappoint_ you by not living up to my _potential_ ," Eames sneers. Arthur winces; he remembers using those words. If he and Dom make it out of this alive, he's going to have to apologize. "Let's see how you deal with _this_ development," Eames snarls, and they're running again. Of course they are—something huge and mechanical is chasing them. "By the way—you have eight hours left!" Eames shouts, before vanishing.

"Shit," Arthur says.

"You said it," Ariadne agrees, grabbing his hand. "Come on, it's the cleaners, run!"

The cleaners are perfect examples of Eames' sense of humour, Arthur thinks, watching the intimidating front piece give way to a couple of goblins on a tricycle. The goblins also look uncomfortably like Mal, but Ariadne's found a ladder and they're climbing, emerging from darkness into light as abruptly as Arthur descended. "Ta da!" Ariadne announces. "Not the beginning."

"I'm so glad you've picked me, today."

"Yes, well. He's a bit of a bully, isn't he?"

"I don't know that he has much choice," Arthur muses. "I think I might have made him that way. Hey, there's somebody. You know the way to the castle, or should we ask them? I think it's Miles and Marie."

"By all means, ask us," Miles booms. Marie, atop his head, arches a fiercely Parisian eyebrow.

"Do you know the way to the castle at the center of the labyrinth?" Arthur asks.

"Hmm," Miles says.

"Hmm?" Arthur asks.

"Ah, hmm. You want—to get to—why, Arthur, why ever for?"

"Maybe he's doing something useful for once," Marie chirps. Arthur glares. Miles tries to glare, but just ends up rolling his eyes uncomfortably far back in his head.

"Sometimes," Miles finally says, "the way forward is really the way back."

"How's that for paradoxical advice?" Marie chirps again.

"Quiet! I'm dispensing wisdom, woman. Now—quite often, it seems like we're not getting anywhere," Miles continues sagely. "When, in fact, _we are_."

Arthur furrows his brow. "Uh, thanks, I guess. Have a good day? I guess?"

Miles nods, "Goodbye, Arthur. Good luck."

"It's so stimulating being your hat," Marie says down at him, but Miles is already snoring, and Arthur and Ariadne have already walked away.

They've gone no fewer than five or six steps when a truly spectacular yell comes echoing from inside the hedges that now make up the labyrinth. Ariadne looks utterly stricken—and bolts.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Arthur shouts after her.

"Sorry, Arthur! Don't want to know what made that sound! It was nice to see you, hope we run into each other again, bye!"

Arthur feels the brief, intense urge to bury his head in his hands. Instead, he heads forward, rounding a corner to see a Yusuf twice the size of usual dangling from his ankles, being tormented by—more Mals, Arthur realizes. All the goblins, all the minions—they're all Mal. Jesus—he really needs to get Dom out of here.

There's a rock next to his feet. Arthur picks it up and lobs it at one of the Mals, sending the lot scattering madly. "Yusuf!" he shouts. "Hey, Yusuf—let me get you down." He lowers the other man to the ground, looking up at him. "How did you end up so tall?"

"Someone apparently had to fulfill the 'loveable giant' archetype," Yusuf replies. "Thank you for that, Arthur."

At least Arthur has the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry. My subconscious is being a real bag of dicks lately. Have you seen Eames? If you haven't, fair warning, I have no idea why his pants are that tight."

Yusuf laughs. "What are we doing here? Where are we going?"

"Center of the labyrinth, yadda, yadda. Hey, look, doors."

This is just getting weird, Arthur thinks, examining the knockers. Maurice Fischer's face is on one of them, the knocker going through his ears, and Peter Browning is on the other, the knocker ring in his mouth. Arthur squints, and stares.

"It's very rude to stare!" Fischer shouts, and Arthur's eyes go wide.

"Sorry—I was just trying to figure out which door to choose," Arthur explains.

"H's df sa pst," mumbles Browning.

"Don't talk with your mouth full!" shouts Fischer.

"I'm nt tlkng wth m'mth fll!"

"I don't know what's going on, Arthur, but it's entertaining," Yusuf muses.

“What is he saying?” shouts Fischer.

Arthur finally buys a clue, pulling the knocker ring from Browning's mouth. “Better?”

“Much,” Browning agrees. “I said, it's no use talking to him, he's deaf as a post.”

“Mumble, mumble, mumble. You're a wonderful conversational companion,” Fischer says, punctuating Browning's point.

“Oh, be quiet! All you do is moan!”

Fischer sniffs. “No good. Can't hear you.”

Browning rolls his eyes—Arthur is transfixed by the utter madness of it all. “Where do these doors lead?” Arthur asks, as if he really thinks he'll receive an answer. Browning frowns.

“No clue. We're just the knockers.”

“Well, then how do I get in?”

“Knock, and the door will open.”

Arthur proffers the ring, but Browning shuts his mouth. “Nooo,” he manages. “Dn't wnt it bck,” he says. Arthur just pinches his nose until Browning has to breathe, and slides the knocker in.

“Sorry,” he offers perfunctorily.

Browning sniffs. “S'lrght,” he mumbles. “Cn't blm ya.”

 

 

 

 

“Ariadne,” Eames coos, beckoning her forward.

“Eames,” she says, starting. “What, uh, what can I do for you? I dropped Arthur—well, not the beginning, but I can do that—just tell me where I should stick him, and I will.”

Eames shakes his head. “Not necessary, bit. I've a better idea.” He presents an apple, cool, crisp, tender to the touch. “Give him this. And Ariadne—if he kisses you again, I shall make you a princess.”

She looks at him expectantly. “Really?”

Eames grins wolfishly. “Of course, bit. Princess of the Land of Stench!”

She can still hear the echo of his laughter as he disappears.

 

 

 

 

“This place just keeps getting weirder and weirder, eh, Yusuf?”

Yusuf is nowhere to be found.

This is a dream, Arthur reminds himself. People disappear all the time. It doesn't change the vague sense of unease that settles around him as he presses forward into the trees, nor settle the constant sensation that he is being watched. The trees seem to whisper around him, constant, unyielding. Arthur feels, for the first time, suddenly very alone.

He meanders through the trees, no real sense of where he's going and even less of where he wants to be. He's sick of this whole enterprise—he just wants to find Dom and get out of here, but if he had been a quitter, he'd have done it already. He's just launched into an embarrassing private tirade about everything Dominick Cobb chooses to be when he happens upon Ariadne, again.

"I came back," she offers, when he says hello. "Thought you could use a, um, a friend."

He smiles at her, loose and easy, and wow, he has been in this dream too long if that's all he needs to feel a little bit better about the way things are going. "I could always use a friend," he says, throwing an arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Ew, yuch, get off!" she cries—but the damage is already done, and with their next step they are sliding, falling—straight into what Arthur assumes must be the Bog of Eternal Stench if the foul smell and the farting noises are anything to go by.

"What just happened?" he muses, before Yusuf slides down the wall behind him and almost knocks them all into the bog. "Welcome back, Yusuf."

"Hi, Yusuf," Ariadne pants.

"I hate this place," Yusuf replies. "I got stuck in a very, very small labyrinth made of very spiny bushes. My feet are killing me and—wow, what's that smell?"

“Bog of Eternal Stench,” Ariadne volunteers helpfully. “It's Arthur's fault.”

“What in the—how is it my fault?”

“You kissed me. Eames said if you did it again he'd send me to the Bog. He's an idiot like that.”

“You can say that again,” Arthur grumbled. “Jesus, it's really awful here, isn't it? Phew.”

“Well, there's a bridge down there,” Yusuf points out helpfully. “We could try it.”

“Best idea I've heard all day,” Arthur sighs. “Honestly, _my fault_.”

In front of the bridge, as is becoming more and more typical of this godforsaken dream Arthur is in, is a very small, very ferocious looking Saito on top of a dog that looks more like Robert Fischer than is strictly necessary, really. He wonders if the dream is nearly over—if maybe this is just the last straw, and both his subconscious and Dom's will give up the ghost soon so that they can all go home. This is probably just wishful thinking by now, but honestly, how much longer can he play out this charade? Eames hasn't even been to check on him in hours—he tries to resist being disappointed by this, but it comes out anyway. Fortunately, Saito has everything, as usual, under control.

“I cannot let you pass, Mr. Arthur.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “And why not, Mr. Saito?”

“No-one may pass over this bridge without my permission.”

Arthur sighs. “May I have your permission?”

Saito frowns—he seems not to have thought of that. Arthur wants to apologize to the real Saito for the role his mind has assigned him. He wants to apologize to everyone for the role his subconscious has assigned them, really. Except Eames. Eames deserves those tight pants and and stupid hair and eyeliner and—he's getting carried away.

“I suppose you may,” Saito says, magnanimously. “Come along, Robert.”

“Woof,” Robert sighs.

Arthur steps across the bridge—there's really nothing else to do.

 

 

 

 

They've made it well out of the Bog when Arthur's stomach finally growls. “Seriously? This dream does not make any sense,” he grumbles, trying to conjure up something to eat and failing miserably.

“It _is_ Limbo,” Ariadne reminds him. “And Dom's the architect. Here,” she says, handing him a shiny red apple.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, and absently takes a bite.

He's only managed to chew twice before the world starts to spin around him.

“Fucking _fuck_ ,” he swears, and passes out.

 

 

 

 

There's nothing lower than Limbo, he reminds himself, waking up in a tuxedo, his hair carefully gelled, his cufflinks made of clock gears. This can't be another, deeper dream. It's got to be the same one, just manipulated carefully to make him feel like he's been moved to a different place, a ballroom in the middle of his head.

There are projections of Mal everywhere, dancing with each other, masked but recognizable. He can see the woman Dom fell in love with in the curves of her hips, the brightness of her smile, but there's something slightly off about her eyes, something that makes his blood run cold, something that brings up memories of pain in his left kneecap and a bullet in his head. He's distracted by the memory when he catches the glimpse of Eames in a reflection beside him.

There's music playing—a waltz. He weaves through the projections, searching out a taller head, broader shoulders, a mischievous smile, only to be met with Mal, Mal all around.

He gives in. He whispers “Please.” He is in Eames' arms.

He remembers the last time they danced like this, the last time he let Eames this close. He's been all over the world twice since then, following Dom, following the jobs, following something that wasn't his heart, however insistent it felt. His heart would rather be here, dancing with Eames. His heart has always been here.

Eames pulls him closer, silent, vulnerable. He hasn't said a word, just led Arthur around the room, steering him away from the spinning projections, through the tables and chandeliers. This is the Eames Arthur remembers from that last night, not the Eames of the dream or the Eames of the Fischer job, careless, taunting. This is the Eames he cared for—the Eames he left, he reminds himself, the thought bitter and punishing. He tries to speak, but Eames just shakes his head and pulls him tighter into the dance.

It's easy to forget, here in Eames' arms. To forget that he's here to find something, here to accomplish something, here with his neck on the line for Cobb again. They move faster—Arthur is following, his head spinning with the dancers, lulled into the rhythms of the dance. He lets himself step closer until they're chest to chest, and closes his eyes, Eames' hands warm on his back, on his neck. he could dance here forever, he thinks, and it wouldn't be long enough at all.

Eames tilts his head up, breathing into his mouth, a fraction of an inch away.

Arthur closes the distance.

Kissing Eames is exactly as he's envisioned it, so real he almost forgets he's still in the dream. His hands tighten on Eames' lapels—he's ignoring the blue sequins, really he is—and his mouth opens, pulling Eames as close as he can, desperate for it now that he's started. Eames wraps his arms around Arthur's back and closes his eyes, still spinning, still dancing, his body warm and solid against Arthur's, his lips sweet and soft.

Arthur's breathing heavily when he pulls away, and looks up at Eames, "let's get out of here" on the tip of his tongue. He's going to say it, too, and damn the consequences, damn the lot, but Mal is grinning over Eames' shoulder at him, all dangerous desire and predatory joy, and his heart sinks. He pulls Eames closer, presses a last kiss to his lips, conciliatory. "I have to go," he says instead, before striding past Eames and all the Malls, picking up a white chair, and hurling it at the glass walls.

"Fair enough," he hears Eames say, and the ballroom melts around him even as he charges through the shattered glass.

 

 

 

 

Ariadne, Yusuf, Saito, and Robert are all waiting for him when he reaches the castle. They're panting—"Hell of a lot of Mals," Ariadne explains, and he wants to kiss her again just for who she is—but they move aside as soon as he approaches them, clearing the way to the castle stairs.

"Retrieve your friend, Mr. Arthur," Saito says.

"Soon, so I can go home," Yusuf adds helpfully, grinning. "The cats are waiting."

"You're in a dream, Yusuf, your cats are fine," Ariadne scoffs, but Arthur sees her nudging closer to Yusuf, and if _that_ is where Ariadne has been when he's called, it explains a hell of a lot about a lot up in the real world.

A world he'd really like to get back to, now that he thinks about it, the taste of Eames' mouth still on his lips, so he nods, checks his tie, and starts up the stairs. "Thanks," he calls back towards them, because he doesn't use that word often enough. "See you topside."

He doesn't look back again.

 

 

 

 

"So, you've found me," Eames calls from the top of the stairs, the first in a series of familiarly paradoxical staircases. "I didn't think you had it in you, Arthur, bravo."

Arthur starts up the first set of stairs, watching the paradoxes unfold in his mind, taking them to pieces and mapping his own way through them. "I had motivation," he replies, stepping from one side to the other and feeling his center of gravity shift. "Where's Dom?"

"Dom's fine," Eames sighs, dancing out of reach. "I wouldn't really do anything to him, you know that."

"I _don't_ know that," Arthur retorts. "You might be my projection, but you've exhibited a hell of a lot of autonomy."

Eames arches an eyebrow; Arthur gets a staircase closer and catches a glimpse of Dom, his eyes locked on a projection of Mal in a jet-black dress. It feels different, looking at him down here, than it ever has in the real world; no tinge of guilt or complicity, just a sad sort of inevitability, a duty rather than a love. For a moment he thinks he might understand what's going on here.

Dom is right underneath him, Eames just behind. Arthur gauges the distance, takes a running leap, and jumps, trusting the physics of the dream to get him where he wants to go.

Instead, he lands in blackness, Eames reappearing in front of him in his third costume change in ten minutes. "Really?" Arthur asks. "This is because I never called you 'your highness,' isn't it?"

Eames looks at him for a moment, his stare unsettling. "You know, Arthur, I have turned this world upside down for you to give you the chase you came looking for, and you still expect more of me. I don't know what you really want or why you're really here, but I must say I'm exhausted of this game you're playing."

Arthur considers this. He thinks of the dream-apple, of the dance, of the way it felt to have Eames' hands pressed to his shoulder blades and Eames' smile flashing without malice. He thinks of the films he watched as a child, of the way projections manifest themselves. He thinks of Dom, lost forever in a limbo of this crumbling goblin world.

"I'll make you a deal," Arthur finally says. "You send Dom back—back, and whole, without Mal chasing him everywhere and haunting his every move—and I'll stay here with you."

This idea has not occurred to Eames before; Arthur can see it in his face. "You would trade your freedom for him," he breathes, and it's almost reverent. Arthur wonders if he's really this shut off from his own subconscious, or if he's just been working really hard at oblivion.

Arthur nods. "Do we have an agreement?"

Eames shakes his head, then, and Arthur is prepared to fight him if he must, to assert himself, to take advantage of the Arthur-shaped chink in Eames' armor—or Eames-as-Arthur-sees-him, as it were. "You and Cobb are free to go," Eames says. "You'll be back topside in moments."

"Why?" Arthur asks, defiantly. Extracting from himself. He never thought he'd see the day.

There's a softness in Eames' expression, and Arthur finds himself swaying ever so slightly forward, wanting to kiss the full mouth again, wanting to lose himself in the dream. "Don't you see, Arthur? I have no real power over you."

The clock chimes; Eames is fading away. Arthur can feel himself returning to his body. He locks eyes with Eames as wakefulness takes him, holding on to the very last moment.

 

 

 

 

"Arthur?"

"Shh, Dom, it's all right. You're back now. You're safe."

"I want to see the children."

"They're on their way home now."

 

 

 

 

_epilogue_

Eames is sunbathing in Cote d'Ivoire when his emergency phone rings—the one only Arthur has the number to. "Hello, Mr. Arthur," he purrs. "To what do I owe this pleasant surprise? It can't possibly be a job, the rumour mill has you out of the business."

He listens for a minute while Arthur talks, the expression on his face rapidly shifting. "Of course, darling, I'll leave right now. Well, yes, I know I don't have to do that, but you've made quite a convincing case. Yes. Ta, let you know when I touch down."

He looks over at Yusuf and Ariadne, building a sand castle together. Ariadne grins. "So that was Arthur, huh?"

Eames nods. "Dom's awake again—and Arthur just asked me out on a date."

"They do say he's the best," Yusuf says contemplatively.

"Guess I'll find out for myself," Eames quips, and stretches out for a last ten minute nap before he heads to the airport.


End file.
